A good writer writes against cliché, so coming to this island at its least emerald-ish should work to my advantage. No green then, but with every other colour of the palate available, I set out to discover Ireland. We arrive on The Burren in a total white-out, the landscape as blank and featureless as some inhospitable planet. From window one, the Aran Islands exist. From window two, the cliffs of Moher wait to be discovered. From window three, we face Connemara. But for tonight, the view is strictly interior: a peat fire glowing, dinner set out in front of the telly, Ron and I cocooned in oatmeal-coloured blankets. We enter our third day of the storm. The snow blows sideways over the burren, obliterating our view of the strange steep slopes. Against the windows, the wind
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